


Will You, Please?

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Awkwardness, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pining, The Art of Asking Someone to a Dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s honestly very sad,” Merlin says, walking with him to the castle that coincidentally does not meander around the Quidditch field. “You can face down Dementors, take down twelve Death Eaters at once, and mix up ten deadly poisons in one afternoon, yet you can’t ask the boy to a dance.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will You, Please?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBarOfGold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBarOfGold/gifts).



> This is for thebarofgold, who also won my 500 follower fic giveaway! They asked for this: 
> 
> "Harry is the DADA professor who's harbouring a secret crush on the young popular Sports/Flying teacher (something like a male version of Madam Hooch - I always wondered what she's up to when she's not a referee for the Quidditch matches). Can we have a Hogwarts hosting an annual Pre-Christmas Yule Ball because the students are utterly charmed with the event and the teachers, much as they like to deny it, like the occasion of gathering with their pupils and colleagues in a less work related environment? Basically they both would like to go to the ball with the other, but are too inhibited to ask, and complain about the rotten situation to their best friends Merlin (Potions Master?) and Roxy (Nurse?)."
> 
> Sounded pretty fun and reminded me of when I tried to ask my best friend to homecoming years back! Let's see if Eggsy and Harry fare better than I...

Roxy and Merlin look thoroughly amused when Harry, once again, arrives late to breakfast, groaning at usual morning commotion of the Great Hall. 

“So, the dead arise!” Merlin proclaims, and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes in front of his colleagues and students. After all, he and Merlin have been friends for years, and although they had been in different houses, were inseparable from the moment they were thrown together in detention for snarking at their old potions professor.

“Hush,” Harry now retorts, plopping down into his chair and reaching for the nearest cup of tea.

Roxy smiles, entertained. “Awake, _Professor_?”

“Not yet.” Harry drains his cup, then reaches for three of the eggs over easy and piles on sausage and bacon and fried tomatoes on top of a small stack of toast. Beside him, Merlin and Roxy grimace when Harry starts spreading blackberry jam onto the eggs, and Harry takes a big bite to hear the usual disgusted groans.

“You’re late, Harry,” Merlin complains, once Harry feels much more awake. “Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for your students?”

“As long as they did their reading and can use a _Relashio_ without setting fire to my robes, I don’t give a damn.”

“Well, I do hope that you make your announcements at the end of class for the sake of students like you.”

Harry sighs. “I presume I’ve missed another one of Percival’s speeches?”

“In a few weeks, there’s going to be the Yule Ball, and it’s going to be before Christmas, so the students who go home for the holidays won’t miss it,” Roxy announces, looking excited. “Unlike the years past, everyone is welcome to attend, not just fourth years and up. Oh, _and_ Percival said that we booked the Weird Sisters!”

 “Chester would not have approved of this levity,” Harry comments, with considerable bitterness. Their old headmaster had been fond of tradition, which often came with a ban on fun and an emphasis on being superior to others. Although everyone’s recently trying not to assume things whenever the Sorting Hat shouts a house, Chester King had been the epitome of every Slytherin stereotype.

“It’s a good thing he isn’t around to see it.” Merlin nods, and his voice lowers. “Percival thinks the castle could use some cheering up after…you know.”

Harry feels the scar on his left temple begin to ache. “I know,” he replies.

“That, and he wouldn’t have approved of young Mister Unwin sitting right up with the professors.”

“Were you talking about me, Merlin?” asks person in question, and Harry tries his best to concentrate on his plate as the seat next to him becomes occupied. “Sorry I’m late,” he then says, plucking one of Harry’s bacon strips off his plate and crunching it between his teeth. “Had a dispute with the Gryffindor and Slytherin Keepers again.”

“We were only discussing the bad things, I assure you,” Merlin drawls, taking a sip of his tea, with Harry ignoring the smirk thrown in his direction.

“You’re right irritating, you know that?” Eggsy grins, grabbing a plate and plying it with nearly everything on the table. “Except for Harry here.”

“Harry can be a bit of a shit when it suits him.” Merlin’s tone becomes very dry. “Chester hated that.”

Eggsy wrinkles his nose. “Bastard never much liked Muggle-borns like me,” he says. “I guess that should have tipped us all off.”

“You’re the one who caught him,” Harry says, recalling Eggsy, robes tangled and hair mussed, clutching his broomstick. _He’s working for Valentine; he’s trying to restart it all!_  

Instead of smiling at his accomplishment, the young man shakes his head.

“I’ve never killed before that,” Eggsy says, “and I won’t like to do it again.”

Harry looks at him, remembering Eggsy had been fresh out of Hogwarts, and though he’d suffered more in the Muggle world than in the Wizarding World, Eggsy never had to choose, in a moment of panic, if he should kill, as Harry once did.

 _He’s so young,_ Harry thinks, _still very young._

“Of course not,” Harry says gently, wanting to reach for Eggsy’s hand and squeeze. “None of us do. But you did what needed to be done.”

“Thank goodness the bezoar was there,” Eggsy mutters, and digs into his breakfast.

“Speaking of which, you also missed the morning announcement,” Roxy says, then proceeds to repeat the news, while Harry watches Eggsy’s face slowly light up.

“A Yule Ball,” Eggsy says dreamily, “I never got to go to one.”

Harry frowns, remembering Eggsy leaving to stay the holiday with his family. Often, he’d come back with bruises and cuts, which were attributed to parkour or free-running, but Harry had known these “gifts” were from his vile stepfather from the moment he’d stepped into their tiny flat and had seen both mother and son cowering when Dean Anthony Baker raised his voice. He’d discretely offered Michelle shelter, even though she was a Muggle and would be viewed under a constant veil of distrust and curiosity, then to Eggsy when his mother refused.

“I have to stay here and protect my mum,” Eggsy had said when he was eleven, and his answer had not changed since then.

Harry longed to be able to do _something_ to Dean, but he was not allowed to, due to the International Statute of Secrecy and the laws that protected Muggles. Interfering with the Muggle government was also not allowed—perhaps if he’d been an Auror or the like and pulled some strings within the Ministry, but as a mere professor, he could not.

If something came from that dreadful battle last term, it had been Eggsy’s confidence. While Harry was laid up at St. Mungo’s, Merlin had told him that Eggsy had gotten his mother out last, along with his little sister, both of whom Eggsy had smuggled into the hospital ward on his way to buy a new broomstick and sweets for Daisy. Seeing Eggsy shoot tiny, colorful spots out of his wand for the entertainment of his clapping sister, Harry had once again tried to repress the affection on his face, though he was certain Eggsy’s mother saw right through him.

“Here’s your chance, then,” Roxy now replies, smiling. “It’s loads of fun, Eggsy, even if you have to chaperone every student in the castle.”

“I’ll have to get dress robes, then,” Eggsy murmurs through a mouthful of potatoes. “Do you think I can get them at Madam Malkin’s?”

“You can,” Harry confirms, trying to think Eggsy’s habit of talking with food in his mouth disgusting rather than endearing. “You don’t have to get anything too formal, though.”

“Harry’s been wearing his for about twenty years,” Merlin contributes, pointing his fork accusingly in Harry’s direction.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Harry replies, with dignity. “I only wear them about three times a year—”

“You can clearly see that the cuffs are beginning to fray,” Merlin interrupts, and Harry’s sorely tempted to perform a Silencing Charm. “And they’re almost _black,_ for pity’s sake.”

“They’re _dark brown_ , and it’s a practical color—”

“Yes, for school robes, perhaps—”

“Oh, like you don’t have a wardrobe of robes in varying shades of black and gray yourself. How many years—”

“Boys,” Roxy cuts in sweetly. “I’m sure both of your tastes are appalling. Please continue eating, as everyone’s beginning to finish up. You wouldn’t want to be late, would you?”

Eggsy stifles a fit of laughter behind his hand, and when Harry mock-frowns at him, Eggsy returns it with a cheeky smile. Harry’s just opened his mouth to playfully scold him when a flustered student comes up to their table, sporting a fresh, ugly bruise across her right cheek.

“Mister Unwin, sir,” she says irritably, “that Gryffindor Keeper charmed the Quaffle, and—”

Eggsy sighs. “Say no more; I’ll be right there.” Pushing back his chair and stuffing a few pieces of toast into his robes, Eggsy waves goodbye, pace quickening to keep up with the student.

After a few minutes, Merlin clears his throat, and Harry realizes that he’s been staring after Eggsy, even long after he’d disappeared from the Great Hall.

 “For fuck’s sake, Harry,” Merlin then groans, as Roxy snickers into her breakfast tea. “You’re worse than my second-years.”

Harry refuses to dignify that with a response, electing to finish his breakfast instead.

* * *

 “So,” Roxy says, handing him a steaming mug of butterbeer from the kitchens. “You should ask him this year.”

“No,” Eggsy says, watching the Ravenclaws practice from the warmth and comfort of his office just near the pitch. He’d often stand at the edge of the pitch to keep an eye on them, but the cold had set in very suddenly, and Eggsy had no desire to stand outside and basically freeze his arse off. “Come on, Rox.”

“Eggsy Unwin, you can go for the first time _._ You’ve always gone home to see your family on Christmas, and now, it’s on the last day before winter holidays. You have no excuse.”

“Except for the fact that you want me to ask out _Harry Hart.”_ Eggsy shakes his head. “I was his _student_ , and I’m not a professor, not like you, a bloody brilliant Transfiguration—”

“For goodness’ sake,” Roxy snaps, putting her own butterbeer down on his desk. “Stop talking yourself down. You stopped Chester and Charlie and Gazelle _and_ Valentine and helped save the Wizarding World from another war, and not only that, you’re kind and funny and smart and a wonderful Quidditch instructor and got your mum and sister out of that horrible house.” Her voice gentles. “And it’s been seven years since you were his student. It’s not exactly improper conduct.”

Eggsy sighs, looking away from the window. “It doesn’t matter, Rox, all right? I just want to have a good time at the ball, and there’s no need to spoil it before it really begins.” He smiles weakly at her, nursing the still-warm mug in his hands. “Even if Harry never feels the same way, as long as we’re friends, it’s fine by me.”

His friend sighs irritably. “I bet you a bloody Galleon that if I slipped a few drops of Veritaserum into your drink, you’d be singing a very different tune.”

“Bloody hell, Rox!” Eggsy snaps. “It doesn’t matter how I feel; it’s about how Harry feels! And it’s clear he doesn’t feel the same way because wouldn’t he have made a bloody move in those seven years? Harry Hart isn’t afraid of _anything._ ” His gaze then turns to the practice. “Now, if you excuse me, I got to get the team inside; it looks like it’s going to storm.”

“What? Eggs—” Roxy begins to protest, but Eggsy brushes past her, leaving his butterbeer untouched, and steps out into the cold. 

* * *

 “Bloody students, can’t follow bloody instructions—”

“Is something the matter, Merlin?” Harry asks, stepping into the Potions classroom and immediately balking at the state of it. Cauldrons are melted, potions ingredients are scattered all around the floor, and one of the desks is missing a leg. “Heavens, what happened?”

“Joint Gryffindor and Slytherin class—that’s what happened!” Muttering _Tergio_ and _Reparo,_ Merlin points his wand at varying damages, while Harry fixes the desk and _Accio_ s the supplies strewn around the dungeon. “Should have never done a competitive aspect, sabotage everywhere, bloody sixth years, you think they wouldn’t be snot-nosed, little brats—”

“So, who won?” Harry asks, and his friend gives him a withering glare before beginning to straighten out the desks.

“Amelia’s sister,” Merlin finally says, pointing his wand at some shattered glass. “Clever girl, kept her nose down and everything. Made a lovely Draught of the Living Dead potion and deserved that a little Felix Felicis vial. Glad she won, quite honestly—I know for a fact she wouldn’t use it to cheat on a test or a Quidditch match, unlike _some_ students.” He then stands back and admires the now-spotless classroom. “There. What do you think, Harry—assign them an essay or make them brew something with loads of Bubotuber pus?”

“Depends on how mad you are.”

“I have half the mind to make them do _both_ ,” Merlin says savagely.

Harry pats his arm rather patronizingly. “There, there.”                            

Merlin glares at him again. “Don’t you have lunch today with young Mister Unwin?”

“I do, but he cancelled on me. Said there was some Quidditch emergency.” Harry sighs, glancing at the bubbling potions on Merlin’s desk. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was avoiding me.”

“So you come to invite me for lunch? Excellent, I love being the second choice.” Before Harry could protest, Merlin rolls his eyes. “Honestly, Harry, just ask him to the ball. I know you’ve been thinking about it since breakfast.” 

“What, go up to him in the hallways and stutter it all out like a fourth year? It’s so…juvenile.”

“Would you rather risk your pride, then? I hoped you had more sense than that.”

Harry shakes his head. “Eggsy and I are merely friends and colleagues. That’s all, and he doesn’t have any…romantic inclinations towards me, not I for—”

Merlin then shoves one of the tiny cauldrons under his nose, and just as Harry swivels his head to avoid it, he catches whiffs of warm butterbeer, new parchment, broomstick thistles, and—

“You bastard,” Harry snarls, stepping as far away from the Amortenia as possible.

Merlin smirks. “And I bet if you cast a Patronus right here, you’d be thinking of Eggsy, wouldn’t you?”

“Let’s just have lunch, shall we?” Harry mutters, and grinning like the wanker he is, Merlin agrees.

* * *

 “I didn’t quite realize dress robes would be this…pricey.” Eggsy glances between the green that reminds him of pine trees and the gold and black that remind him of his favorite tracksuit at home. “They’re just like school robes, only different colors.”

“They’re also made of velvet,” Madam Malkin’s assistant says, crossing the room to attend to a customer walking through the door. “And silk—“

“No, thank you,” Eggsy interrupts, hoping he didn’t sound too abrupt. With his salary, he doesn’t have to buy many things secondhand anymore, but there’s no way he’s blowing his money on something that he’s only going to wear a handful of times each year. He’s tried on every robe that fits him several times, narrowing it down to two options, and sort wants to wrap this up; Madam Malkin looks torn between allowing him to stay long enough to buy something or simply kicking him out, which is fair because he’s been here much longer than he thought.

But he couldn’t decide, and the more Eggsy looked and asked Madam Malkin or the shop assistants or the other patrons, the more he wondered about _Harry’s_ opinion, and the more he berated himself for being so idiotic. Eggsy might as well get a stand-in for Harry, maybe spin that older bloke around over there at the next mirror over, and—wait. 

_Is that…?_

Harry, right in the middle of the shop, turns and seeing him, smiles and strides forward. “Eggsy,” he says warmly. “How are you?” 

“Good, thanks,” Eggsy replies. “Just using the weekend to get some dress robes. You too?”

Harry nods. “It seems some _one_ ,” and by the stress on the last syllable, Eggsy guesses that the culprit’s Merlin, “utterly destroyed mine, and I’m forced to get new ones. I’m also explicitly told that if I simply buy them in the exact same shade that they’ll also meet an untimely end.”

Eggsy laughs. “What are you thinking of?” he asks.

Harry gestures to the one he has on—dark red: not a horrible color like maroon, but a deep, rich red that looked like the wine Eggsy figured posh people back in the Muggle World drank all the time with filet mignons. “This one. What do you think?”

“I like them,” Eggsy says simply. There’s no way he can voice his true thoughts—that, for example, the color made Harry look almost regal and very, very handsome as a result. “I’m just trying to decide on one myself.” He then holds up the ones he’s picked out.

 “That one,” Harry immediately says, pointing to the green robes. “They’ll bring out your eyes.”

Eggsy flushes. “Are—are you sure?”

Harry’s smile is warm. “Positive. They’ll look wonderful on you, and the shade will bring out the richness of your hair—” He immediately cuts himself off, quickly looking away. “That is, of course, up to you, but just…offering my opinion.”

“No, no, you’re right. I…” Eggsy looks at Harry, eyes fond and warm. "I'll get them." 

"I'm glad you're going to attend the ball," Harry says, smiling. "Granted, you'll have to keep an eye on everyone to make sure it's not complete havoc, but perhaps you can take a few turns around the dance floor."

Eggsy grimaces. "I just remembered I need to learn how to dance. I mean, I know how to waltz, but that was a while ago." 

"You won't need to learn anything too formal," Harry reassures. "If all else fails, just copy the person next to you. And if you're with a partner, let them lead you."

Too quickly, Eggsy's mind pictures it: him with one hand on Harry's shoulder and the other on his waist, both of them wearing their new robes, slowly spinning across the tiles that are dimly lit with the candles floating above them, high over their heads. He imagines Harry softly laughing, coaxing him into another set of steps, voice gentle and confident in his abilities, like so many years ago when he taught Eggsy from how to identify a Boggart to producing his Patronus, a pug with squashed face and twitching whiskers. Charlie had laughed—his had been a dog, too, but with long legs and bared teeth—and Eggsy had been too stunned to muster a retort because the memory had not been playing Quidditch or laughing with Roxy or playing with Daisy. It had been Harry— _Professor Hart—_ smiling at him, just two days ago in the Great Hall, and he'd nearly dropped his wand. 

Harry had always been there for him, from when he was a sullen first year to a confident seventh year to a beloved Flying teacher. When Eggsy had seen him fall to the ground from Valentine's spell, he'd screamed and charged at the man, ending up cutting through his followers, including the deadly Gazelle, until he could get Harry to safety. And seeing him in St. Mungo's, eyes closed and hands limp, had forced him to realize—realize that he loved Harry Hart. 

Steeling himself as a sudden bout of courage seizes him, Eggsy begins, “Listen, Harry, do you—uh—”

“Dear, are you going to buy these? I can wrap them up for you,” Madam Malkin suddenly asks, and the moment, if there even was one to begin with, is shattered.

“Uh, yes, thank you.” Eggsy mutters, and follows the witch to the counter.

* * *

Before Harry knows it, the castle is all decorated, the Yule Ball is tomorrow, and he still hasn’t dared to approach Eggsy Unwin.

“It’s honestly very sad,” Merlin says, walking with him to the castle that coincidentally does _not_ meander around the Quidditch field. “You can face down Dementors, take down twelve Death Eaters at once, and mix up ten deadly poisons in one afternoon, yet you can’t ask the boy to a dance.”

“Since when are you so ardently interested in my love life?” Harry asks, rather stiffly, face turned to watch Eggsy demonstrate how to take off on a broom for eager-eyed, jittery first years. “Jealous?”

“No, just amused,” Merlin replies. “Roxy and I have a bet going on, and she wagered—well, I won’t tell you, because you’ll do just that to lose me twenty-five Sickles.”

 Harry shakes his head. “Why? Why must you two bet on something that will clearly not occur?”

“I’m frankly surprised you don’t have the _courage_ to do so, as head of the Gryffindor House,” Merlin teases, just as Eggsy blows his whistle and shouts, “And _up_!”

The first years kick off, all but one, and Eggsy hollers at the ones in the air to stay up there and behave before crouching down to see the boy face-to-face.

“I promise I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises, then gestures to the broom in his own hand, as Harry finds himself pausing to watch the scene. “I’ll go up with you, and I’ll be right beside you the whole time, Dennis.” When the boy’s eyes flicker upwards, Eggsy continues, gently, “It’s all right. I got you, okay?”

“I—I prefer being on the ground,” Dennis stutters.

“I get it,” Eggsy reassures, “and I’m not going to make you fly very high. Just a couple of feet. If you hate it, you never have to do this again. Promise.”

“Really?”

“There are other forms of transportation. Carriages, Portkeys, Apparition—though, that one isn’t for a while. And it’s okay if you’re scared, all right? One of my mates doesn’t like flying—hated it when she was your age and still hates it now.” Eggsy places both hands on his shoulders. “But sometimes, you got to take a chance.”

Dennis chews his lip. “Were you afraid of flying?”

“No,” Eggsy admits, “but I was afraid of a lot of other things.”

“Like what?”

Eggsy hesitates, and Harry can see why: there are things Eggsy doesn’t exactly want to broadcast to a twelve-year-old. Harry’s of the mind that children should be concerned about having to eat their vegetables, waiting for their turn on the playground, and hoping that their schoolyard crushes would give them a special card for Valentine’s Day, not about not getting enough to eat or avoiding a drunken stepfather’s rage or worrying about one of Valentine’s followers landing their gaze on someone they loved.

“Like spiders,” Eggsy finally says, with a bit of laughter in his voice, and Dennis smiles. “Silly, yeah? Can’t stand those things, even to this day, ever since Peeves dropped one in my hair when I was a first year.” Harry briefly smiles, remembering Eggsy’s nigh-on-high shriek, Charlie’s howling laughter, and the resulting food fight. Beside him, Merlin’s impatiently waiting, still a few strides ahead, waiting for Harry to follow.

Then, Eggsy continues, “And you never really stop being scared, even when you’re very old— _oh_.”

Harry smiles when Eggsy looks up to see him, face flushing ever so slightly. Dennis looks between them, confused. “Professor Hart?” he asks.

“I just have something I have to ask Mister Unwin,” Harry says, noticing that Merlin’s gone, probably muttering obscenities underneath his breath on the way back. “Something I’ve been…a bit nervous to ask.”

“You know, me too,” Eggsy proclaims, cheeks flushed. “Maybe…we should say it at the same time?”

Harry nods, and both of them, in unison, ask, “Do you want to want to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

 _“Yes,”_ Eggsy breathes, as Harry says, “Of _course_ ,” and they stand there, Eggsy still clutching his broom and Harry with his hands in his pockets, both grinning at each other and not seeming to be able to stop.

It’s interrupted by an indignant cough and titters of laughter from above, and Harry remembers he and Eggsy are not alone.

“That’s all?” Dennis mutters, clearly disgruntled, throwing one leg over his broom. “Silly to worry about at all.”


End file.
